“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“And how many soldiers were there?”
“I don’t know. Twenty or thirty. A lot.”
“So there was nothing you could have really done then is there?”
He shrugged. “I guess not.”
“And how do you know he was the same man all these years later?”
“I recognized him and I recognized his name.”
“He told you his name all those years ago?”
“Yes. We spoke for a few minutes when I tried to kill him.”
“You tried to kill him back then?”
“Yes. With my bare hands.”
“And he told you his name.”
“Yes. First he asked me mine then I asked him his. And I told him if I ever saw him again I’d kill him.”
“And when did you see him next.”
“Yesterday when he arrived at the hotel.”
“And you recognized him.”
“Immediately.”
“Then what happened?”
Phong closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, the interview rapid fire, the questions non-stop. Just a little bit more. You’re almost done. “In our end of day briefing for what was happening the next day we were told he would be leaving for the museum.” Phong quickly related the rest of the story, the interviewer prompting him along when needed, and within minutes the entire truth had been told, a weight lifting off his shoulders though the terror still remained.
“Is there anything you’d like to say?”
“Yes, yes there is. My friend Duy had nothing to do with this. I lied to him and tricked him. He didn’t want me to get fired for losing my pass otherwise he never would have done what he did. Also, also I’m sorry. Not for killing Petrov—he deserved to die for what he did—but for all the trouble I have caused. This man”—he pointed toward the American agent—“is innocent. I stole his pass while he was in the shower. And these people”—he motioned to the professors and the Vietnamese woman—“are innocent as well. They just happened to be in the room when I shot Petrov. None of what is happening in the world should be happening. I’m so sorry that innocent people have been hurt. Please stop the fighting, please.”
“Thank you Mr. Quan,” said the man, turning back to the camera. “There you have it, Terry, a confession, live on the air, to the most notorious assassination of the twenty-first century. Russian Prime Minister Anatoly Petrov, murdered for a war crime he allegedly committed almost forty years ago. No conspiracy, no involvement by the American or British governments, nobody helping him. A lone gunman, delivering justice for a wrong committed against him in a war that took away the innocence of so many. I understand you are now showing the analyzed footage that we were able to obtain from the museum, showing that the man entering the museum was approximately five-foot-three.” He motioned for the Asian American to join them. The man stood beside Phong. “I’m five-foot-ten. You can see Agent Green is essentially my height and Mr. Quan is clearly about half a foot shorter, matching the height shown in the video.”
“Somebody’s coming!”
He turned to see one of the Vietnamese men with guns open the door and stick his weapon outside, three shots ringing out.
They all hit the ground as a hail of gunfire responded.
Dong Mac Ward, Hanoi, Vietnam
Sarkov stepped out of his car, clearly in the right place. Two police officers were inspecting a CNN news van parked and apparently empty. He was pretty sure the reporters wanted regarding the escape of the Vietnamese girl were from ABC, so he doubted they were the same crew. That being said, why a CNN news van would be here at this location at this time of night made little sense.
Unless they were here to interview Phong.
Which is why he had merely shown them his identification and asked them what they had found rather than tell them why he was there and possibly tip them off. One of the officers actually spoke Russian, his father having been stationed in Moscow when he was a child in a diplomatic position.
It was a pleasant surprise, even if the accent was thick.
Though he spoke English well, he did find it a slight mental strain to converse in a foreign language, especially when those he was speaking it with quite often were speaking a language they sometimes only claimed to speak. And with thick accents.
He knew he would sleep like the proverbial log tonight.
But if Phong were being interviewed by CNN right now, it might be a way for this entire situation to be defused, and allow him to slip back to his apartment unnoticed, perhaps escaping Moscow’s wrath.
One of the officers shouted and pointed. Sarkov turned to see a man slinking along the street, hiding in the shadows. He couldn’t tell if it was Phong, but a door opened beside the man and he was pulled inside, the door slamming shut then a light turning on, highlighting a small square window in the door.
It had to be him.
Which now meant there was no way to keep what was happening secret.
You better hurry up, my friend.
Sarkov returned to his car, his back sore from walking and standing for pretty much the entire day except when driving. He sat down, the door open, the evening now cool with a nice breeze. The Vietnamese were on their radio, calling in reinforcements. He wasn’t sure they knew what they had gotten themselves into, but they weren’t taking chances, not with everything that had happened in their capital today.
Which meant he had a decision to make.
Stay, and possibly be found out by Yashkin, and by extension, Moscow, or leave, not finishing his duty as an investigator, leaving the Americans to still be blamed for something they had nothing to do with, and his government running roughshod over international law and continuing to display generally indecent behavior.
He sighed, his head falling against the headrest as he closed his eyes, fatigue quickly overwhelming him.
Gunshots rang out, startling him out of his sleep. He reached for his gun as he regained his bearings, finding several police cars now lining the street, officers taking cover behind them as a group of four ran for cover. As soon as they were out of the line of fire at least a dozen guns opened up on the front of the building Phong had entered.
And Sarkov sighed.
I knew this wasn’t going to end well.
Daewoo Hanoi Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam
Dimitri Yashkin watched the last of the motorcade pull away then spun on his heel, entering the hotel. His vehicle was parked in the front but he wasn’t leaving quite yet. He pointed to Major Yin. “They will have left luggage and other equipment. I don’t want it touched. A forensics team from Moscow will be arriving shortly. They will go through everything. If the Americans arrive from the embassy to pick it up, tell them they can’t because the entire hotel is a crime scene.”
“You intend to keep the hotel closed?”
“Yes.”
“But what of the guests? This is a five star hotel, the most prestigious hotel in the city, and it holds hundreds of guests.” Yin shook his head. “My superiors are already demanding updates on when it will reopen.”
Yashkin stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He could care less if a bunch of rich, pampered tourists and businessmen were inconvenienced. The Russian Prime Minister had been assassinated. It took precedence. And his orders from Moscow were clear.
Maximize the disruption.
The more people who were inconvenienced, the more people who were pissed off, the better, as long as the message was controlled, as long as they all thought it was the Americans’ fault.
And so far he felt he was doing a stellar job, especially with the Vietnamese so eager to please. The weapons deal they were so desperate to close would be the biggest in their history, and with the Ruble collapsing due to economic sanctions over the Ukraine, Russia needed foreign cash to add to the reserves that were quickly being drained to try and stabilize the currency.
The deal was worth billions. His country
wanted the money, the Vietnamese wanted the equipment, desperate to be able to show some real muscle with a belligerent China on their border. When he had read his briefing notes on the flight here he couldn’t believe how arrogant China was over their claims in the South China Sea. Their aggression was uncalled for, and their claim tenuous at best. But since they had the military might, their neighbors could do little but protest.
He hoped the weapons deal went through soon.
For both countries’ sakes.
But tonight he needed to tie up loose ends. The two hotel employees had to be eliminated, the two professors, the Vietnamese grad student, those who rescued her, and the two reporters who had witnessed the rescue.
He could care less if the American agent escaped now. The museum footage had been destroyed, the hotel footage destroyed, and once the witnesses were eliminated, it didn’t matter what the Americans or their DSS ‘Agent’—for he knew full well the man was no DSS agent—said to the public. They would never be believed.
He knew that if you controlled the message, then you controlled the minds of the people. In Russia a recent poll showed that only 3% of people believed Malaysian Airlines flight MH17 was shot down by Russian equipped separatists in the Ukraine. The Kremlin’s message had been accepted by the public, 82% of the people believing it had been shot down by the Ukrainian Air Force.
It was propaganda worthy of Goebbels himself.
One of Yin’s men ran up to them, handing Yin a radio. A flurry of Vietnamese was exchanged, Yashkin uninterested, his disdain for the Vietnamese knowing no bounds. In fact, he hated most things that weren’t Russian. Russian music, movies and television were far more appealing than anything Hollywood could produce. Russian cuisine was the finest in the world, its vodka and caviar second to none. And its women! There were none like them.
He thought of his fiancée, Karina.
She was a face that would indeed launch a thousand ships.
“There’s a gunfight near the river,” said Yin, finishing his radio call.
“And this interests me why?”
“Because there’s a CNN vehicle there.”
“So, reporters are at a gun fight. This is to be expected.”
Yin shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. They were there before the gunfight started. They aren’t in the vehicle, they think they’re inside with the gunmen.”
Yashkin’s eyes opened slightly wider as his heart picked up a few beats. “It just might be worth checking out.”
As they walked through the lobby he noticed a large number of the soldiers and police heading toward the lounge. He followed, curious, knowing full well they wouldn’t dare to drink on the job. It immediately became obvious what was attracting their attention. The large television on the far wall was tuned to CNN International with a large headline emblazoned across the screen.
Russian Prime Minister’s Assassin Confesses.
On the left of the screen the museum footage he had ordered destroyed was playing with computer graphics overlaid showing the height of the individual and on the right, an interview was playing showing the two professors, the American agent, the young woman from the museum and an Asian man he assumed was the maintenance worker that had actually done the killing.
His blood pressure ticked up a few dozen points as he clenched his fists.
Then he smiled as he saw the interview was taped, and it had been interrupted by gunfire.
He now knew where almost all of his loose ends were located.
Dong Mac Ward, Hanoi, Vietnam
“Stop shooting, you moron!”
Niner hauled Cadeo’s man back from the door, tossing him onto his back. The man looked flustered for a moment then jumped to his feet, raising his weapon at Niner.
“We’ll have none of that now,” said Acton, his Beretta raised and aimed directly at the man’s head. “He just saved your life.”
The man looked nervously at Acton, the ‘would I rather feel shamed or be dead’ debate going on. A little too slowly. Laura joined him at his side, her own weapon pointed at the man. “Why don’t you go cover the back?” she suggested.
The man nodded, lowering his weapon as Cadeo returned from the back room. “We’re surrounded,” he said.
The gunfire stopped, the sturdy metal door having held back almost all the bullets, the small glass window in the door shattered. Acton looked back at Stewart and Murphy, Murphy’s camera still rolling. “Are we still live?”
“Yes,” replied Stewart.
“Good!” Acton faced the camera. “As you can see, we aren’t shooting back. It was one local who got scared and fired, and we stopped him. We have no intention of fighting, we just want our story to get out to the world so they know the truth of what happened here today. We want safe passage to the American Embassy, and eventually home. We are willing to cooperate fully with any investigation, but only with consular access and an assurance we won’t be harmed.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Where’s Phong?”
Stewart motioned to the far corner. Phong and Mai were both huddled there behind what looked like some sort of large tool cabinet.
“Are you two okay?”
Nods.
“Good. Just stay back there, stay low.” He turned back to Niner who was stealing glances out the shattered window. “Status?”
“About two dozen police and Sarkov. All light weapons for now but I’m sure the heavy artillery will be arriving soon. What’s our game plan here?”
“I think we need to delay as long as possible without killing anyone else. Our story needs time to circulate so the powers that be can get some control of the situation.”
“Which means we need to start negotiating,” said Laura. “That should buy us time if they’re willing to talk.”
“That’s the question,” said Niner, “are they willing to talk? This isn’t back home where they’ll spend three days talking down a madman with a Mountain Dew and a hard on. This is Vietnam. Shoot first, burry the evidence so there’s no questions to ask except, ‘I wonder what ever happened to that nice subversive who lived down the street?’”
“True, but we’re TV stars right now,” said Acton, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Murphy. “They never kill celebrities.”
“In America.”
“This is true too. We could tell them you’re a K-pop star on vacation.”
“I do have a lovely singing voice.”
“Would you two stop?”
Acton turned to Laura, an expression of chagrin on his face. “Sorry, hon. Nervous tension.”
She shook her head at them but Acton could tell she was battling a laugh, her nerves on edge as well. He glanced back at the camera and could tell Stewart was fascinated with what he was seeing, Murphy giving him a thumbs up from behind the camera mounted on his shoulder.
“How do we start negotiations?” asked Acton. “Wait for them?”
“I think that question is now moot,” said Niner from his position at the door. “Look.”
Acton stepped over to the door and took a quick peek.
“Uh oh, this can’t be good.”
Dong Mac Ward, Hanoi, Vietnam
“Mr. Sarkov!”
Sarkov turned to see the police lieutenant who was in charge of the scene rushing toward him. The gunfire had been brief and had thankfully stopped. He had no desire to see anyone inside killed or injured, though he feared death was their immediate future unless someone in Moscow decreed otherwise.
Hanoi was clearly marching to a Russian beat.
“I’ve just been informed that the American delegation has left for the airport and that your superior, Mr. Yashkin, is on his way.”
Sarkov felt butterflies. “Here?”
“Yes.”
“How did he find out?”
“I’m assuming the police radio.”
Sarkov kept his expression neutral, his overwhelming desire to curse at the news held at bay. “When will he arrive?”
“About fifteen
minutes.”
“Okay. I’m going to attempt to talk them down.”
The lieutenant frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise? They have already fired at us.”
“Yes, but that might have been nerves. Let’s see what happens.”
He unholstered his weapon, placing it on the roof of his car, then turned and strode directly toward the door with the now shattered window, his hands held out at his sides. He spotted movement inside, then a second head appeared for a moment.
“We need to talk!” he called, continuing forward. “I’m unarmed!”
“Lift your jacket, take a spin.”
He lifted his jacket up, revealing his portly belt line then turned around so they could see he wasn’t concealing another gun.
“Okay, keep coming forward, hands up.”
He approached the door and it suddenly was pulled open. He stepped inside and as the door closed behind him he recognized Agent Green as the man he had been speaking to and the two professors. A television crew was filming from the other side of what looked like a repurposed garage. Four Vietnamese men with guns were at the far end and what appeared to be Phong with the young Mai girl hiding in a corner.
All the loose ends except Duy.
It would be the mother lode if Yashkin got here.
These people don’t stand a chance.
And he said so.
“You people don’t stand a chance.”
“What do you mean?” asked Acton as the American agent patted him down.
“He’s clean,” announced the man before covering the door again.
“My superior, Mr. Yashkin, will be here within less than fifteen minutes. At that point he will order your elimination.”
“But why?” asked Laura. “We have proof we’re innocent.”
“He doesn’t care. He’s under orders to push the official story from Moscow. He’s already ordered the destruction of the museum video and the hotel footage showing Mr. Quan entering and leaving Agent Green’s room, and Agent Green leaving his room just after the shooting occurred, proving he wasn’t involved.”
The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Page 26
